


Monachopsis

by BeautifulFiction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Brief Mention of Past Child Abuse, Dreams, Dreamsharing, I say "meet", Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, They meet in their twenties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monachopsis<br/><em>n.</em> the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.</p><p>It takes John Watson decades to discover where he really belongs.<br/><strong>This incomplete work is now abandoned.</strong></p><p> </p><p>  <em>Note: Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads or ebooks tree without my express permission. Thank you :)</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panegyric

Panegyric: A public expression of high praise.

~~~~~~

John prodded his duffel with his toe, laughing as Bill Murray muttered something uncomplimentary about some of the other passengers on the tube train. It always happened. You went anywhere in uniform and you got looks. Some people would smile and duck their heads, respectful of the perceived sacrifice. Some would stare as if they should have been in an asylum: a soldier during a time-of-war; who in their right mind would sign up for that?

A few would get rough, blokes mostly, who thought their masculinity was being challenged because they weren't in the Forces. The occasional pacifist would give them an earful, but John wasn't too bothered. 

He had spent his whole life feeling subtly out-of-place. Not excluded, exactly, but always living on some unseen edge. Now, heading out for his second tour of duty, back to sand and gunfire and the stress of emergency surgery, he had found somewhere he was happy. He'd tried to explain that, once or twice, but people couldn't bring themselves to understand. Even the others in his unit didn't get it. Most of them saw what they did as a job, nothing more. Not a calling and certainly not a blessing.

So John let strangers assume what they wanted and struggled not to think of an active war-zone with inappropriate longing.

'Watch out,' Bill muttered. 'Toffs at three o'clock.'

He glanced up as the doors slid apart, letting on another pulse of commuters as others struggled to disembark. Among them were several men – bankers-to-be from the looks of them – talking in that loud, obnoxious way of the upper-crust. They stared around the carriage, kin in their sneers as they took in the full seats before leaning against the nearby poles. One in particular, probably the leader of the group, had an expression as if he trodden in something disgusting, and it only intensified when his gaze briefly drifted over John and Bill where they stood.

'What do you reckon, Oxford or Cambridge?'

'Doesn't matter. Put them where we're going, they'd shit themselves in minutes and be dead in a week,' John murmured, grinning as Bill smothered a chuckle. The train was loud enough to hide the noise. Between the roar of the engine, the singing of the rails and the chatter of people, it was difficult to hear himself think, and John shifted his weight on his spread feet, trying to keep his balance as he idly watched the new arrivals.

They were kids playing at being men, thinking a big car meant a big dick. The clothes they wore were trying too hard and begging for a mugging, and every smile was toothy. Definitely destined for finance. They all looked like they had crawled out from under a rock. 

All but one.

John's breath left him in an unexpected rush. It was like being punched in the solar-plexus, abrupt and shocking. Indolent disinterest sharpened, and his hand tightened around the pole that was keeping him up as he stared. 

Where the others looked fabricated, this one was different. There was nothing brash and bold about his body language, but there was a natural kind of confidence. He was leaning one shoulder against the partition that separated the doors from rest of the carriage, his dark head down-bent and his gaze focussed on a small phone in his hand: one of the new Nokias, from the looks of it. Expensive, but not as costly as his suit. John was no expert, but he could see the difference between what the man's companions were wearing – glass trying to be diamonds – and the real thing, probably hand-made for the man it clad.

He was stunningly pale. Even in the unflattering light of the carriage, he looked a shade whiter than everyone else, almost translucent. He was long-legged and coltish, and the shock of dark curls looked black bar the faintest hint of a mahogany to their depths. The stranger, and John had never considered applying this word to another man, was beautiful – sensual – and that was not the kind of realisation to experience for the first time on a packed tube train.

'You might want to shut your mouth,' Bill chuckled in his ear, making John close his jaw with a snick just as the stranger lifted his head. At least that meant he wasn't gaping like a landed fish, but it did nothing to ease the sharp surge of shocking heat as silvery eyes met his.

For a heartbeat, it looked like the man's gaze would sweep over him, dismissing him as irrelevant. However, something must have caught his attention, because John found himself the object of the most intense scrutiny he had ever experienced. It was unabashed, bordering on rude, but there was something in that elegant, sharp face that dismissed all John's concerns. Besides, he realised, it wasn't like he was much better. He wasn't staring, but nor could he look away. It was as if his gaze had become magnetised, and every inch of skin throbbed with awareness.

'Didn't think you were into blokes,' Bill muttered, more teasing than judgemental, and John struggled to keep the flush off his face as he clenched his jaw.

'Shut up; he's – it's –' The words staggered to a halt, because what exactly could he say? He hadn't experienced more than mild curiosity about men during medical school, and even less than that during his stint in the army, despite the fact blind eyes were turned. No man had ever caught his attention so thoroughly, and John was left with the shimmer of butterflies in his stomach and a cloud of confusion in his head. 'It's not what you think.'

'Uh-huh.' His friend was grinning, looking far too amused. John glowered at him before he noticed the expression on Bill's face change to something more pitying. 'If we weren't heading out, I'd tell you to go for it, but...' He shrugged. 'Besides, it looks like he's taken.'

John risked a glance back and felt his stomach curdle. It was the one he'd decided as the leader of the toffs: a smarmy looking shit with brown hair. He was leaning into the stranger's personal space, dominant and possessive. He hooked a finger under that pale chin, breaking the sterling gaze for a moment before the taller man yanked himself away. It wasn't affection on his face, not by a long shot. If they were lovers, then it was probably some kind of power game rather than anything more tender.

That was a weak consolation, but John would take what he could get. He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't fooling himself that someone so obviously a cut above the rest would look twice at a soldier like him. Still, something in him yearned, and the sensation intensified as the man spoke, his voice deep and resonant. It wasn't loud, but it carried the short distance to where John stood.

'Get off, Sebastian.'

The one with the brown hair grimaced, and John tensed as he saw the hint of a temper. It was anger hidden beneath a veneer of civility, but it didn't look like brutality was far from the surface. Muddy eyes glanced back at John with a sneer before the one named Sebastian drawled a response. 'It's rude to stare, Sherlock.'  
John latched onto the name, frowning in confusion. He had never heard anyone called that before, he was certain, and yet there was something almost familiar about the cadence of it, its hush of consonants and vowels. Either way, it suited its owner; unique and more than a little wild.  
Sherlock.

'Go on then; you've been eyeing him up long enough,' Sebastian said, shrugging his shoulders. 'Do him.'

John twitched at the command. It made Sebastian sound like some kind of pimp ordering around one of his toys; or perhaps that was his imagination – sex abruptly, inescapably on the brain. The thrill that raced through him was a touch too hot to be genuine shock, and he licked his lips as his back tensed. He had to be mistaken. That couldn't be what he meant, could it? What exactly was the twat expecting Sherlock to do? Get on his knees on a crowded train and –?

He tried valiantly not to blush as his imagination ran wild, but it was a lost cause. Heat burned the tips of his ears and swelled in his cheeks. Worse, Sherlock noticed it. There was a flicker of confusion, as quick as a lightning strike across that elegant face before it was replaced with something else – something amused that became abruptly more seductive when he lifted one eyebrow and the corner of his lips twitched up in a smile.

'Well?' Sebastian demanded. 'What are you waiting for?'

John watched as Sherlock sighed, slipping his hands in his pocket and leaning back against the quivering wall of the train. He didn't know what he was expecting, but the man made no move towards him. Instead those eyes turned analytical, that mouth– tempting in a way John wasn't used to – opened, and he began to speak.

'Military, obviously. He's RAMC: an army surgeon on his second tour in a desert climate, either Afghanistan or Iraq, judging by the fading on his uniform and duffel: prolonged exposure to intense heat and sunlight. He must be good, he's already a lieutenant. Trained in London, probably at St Bart's. Middle class, but most of the money's gone on his education. If it hadn't he'd have bought a new kit, rather than repairing the old one. No overt signs of patriotism, therefore he did not sign up to serve his country: civilian life was too boring. Left-handed, obvious in his stance and the way he wears his watch – but he fires his gun with his right, as most soldiers would.'

John blinked as Bill breathed a curse of surprise. Beneath his feet the pitch of the wheels changed, the train slowing down as it approached the station, but he was too rapt to pay it any mind as Sherlock continued.

'He used to play a contact sport, probably rugby, until a knee injury made it inadvisable. The wear on his boots suggests ligament damage, almost entirely healed, but it resulted in a fractionally lopsided stride. His last name's Watson, implying Scottish heritage, but at least one parent currently lives in Surrey in a street beginning with “L”. Number twelve.'

'You're right, Seb,' one of the toffs muttered. 'He is a freak. How the fuck do you know where he lives?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John would have laughed if he'd had the breath for it. 'It's written on the label on his bag.'

Almost as one, everyone looked at John's duffel, including several bystanders who had simply been within earshot. Sure enough, the address was partially visible.

Bill grabbed John's arm, his head whipping around as the doors hissed and beeped. 'Shit. Hurry up, John! This is our stop!'

It was like being torn out of a dream, ripped free by the sudden surge of reality and commuters. John shouldered his bag and dashed after his friend. 'But – did you see that? Did you hear what he just said?'

'Come on!'

'That was amazing!' John laughed as he jumped off the train and stared back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of dark hair and silvery eyes before they were lost amidst the rush. He lowered his voice, no longer a shout but a whisper, little more than a prayer.

'Amazing.'


	2. Percipient

Percipient: Having good insight or understanding.

~~~~~~

  
Ever since he was old enough to talk, it seemed Sherlock had been saying too much. Everyone, from his peers in the playground to the family around him recoiled from the accuracy of his observations. Often, they were met with silence, but sometimes there was retribution – verbal or physical.

No one had ever _praised_ him before.

The soldier – John Watson according to the information gleaned on the short train-ride – was a prime candidate for lashing out at the uncomfortable cut of Sherlock's truths. A strong young man, confident in himself and his abilities, should be threatened by his own transparency.

Instead he had stared at Sherlock like – like...

He shook his head, inhaling from the cigarette between his fingers and holding the fumes in his lungs, imagining their coils before he exhaled into the night sky. The wall of the town-house stood firm at his back: an awkward stretch of mausolean stone. Darkness pressed around him, shaded with umber from the street-lights beyond the garden hedge.

Normally, strangers were of no interest to him. They were nothing but shadows passing through his life, deduced and dismissed, but he couldn't get the soldier out of his head. Blond and shorter than average, neither handsome nor plain, he seemed so ordinary, and yet something in Sherlock paid attention. The moment he caught sight of those blue eyes, he experienced a slip of sensation: a jolt beneath his ribs that resonated from his heart to his stomach and back again, as shocking as it was unusual.

A smile curved his lips, and Sherlock ducked his head, tapping ash from the cigarette as a quiet thrill of pleasure raced through him. He had called him amazing.

When Sebastian goaded him, making his demands, it was tempting to ignore him. The fools from university treated his abilities like a parlour trick: amusing when it was directed at others, repulsive when Sherlock's observations focussed on them. However, it was one small way in which he could remind himself that he was better than his companions. He saw what they did not, and so he gave his deductions voice.

Well, some of them.

Restraint was not something he exercised often, if at all, and certainly not for the benefit of strangers. John Watson's life wrote its story in the angle of his chin and the callus on his thumb. There were scars both hidden and visible, behaviours that spoke louder than any words. There was a novel's worth of information there for Sherlock to discern; he had merely given Sebastian the summary.

Now he hoarded the rest like secrets: painful little gems to be treasured. The stubs in the duffel pocket – betting on the dogs, too many for a brief flutter – suggested a habitual need for excitement. The faint mark on one cheekbone, years old and almost faded from sight, was circular and distinctive: a man's signet ring leaving its blemish on a child’s face.

The way he held himself was military trained, but there was the kind of confidence that not even the army could drill into a man. John Watson was used to having to defend himself, or perhaps a significant other, from physical force. He recognised the value of strength: a lesson Sherlock suspected he had learned the hard way. However, he was not a bitter young man. He did not bristle or demand an explanation when Sherlock spoke. Instead, he had smiled, his eyes bright with fascination and something else, something that rarely lingered after people saw what he could do.

Desire.

Heat fluttered in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, and he took another drag, the memory turning in his mind’s eye. He could see John's face, the blushes and the sneaking, sideways stares. John Watson had looked like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His bearing spoke of a man comfortable with the art of intimacy, yet surprise traced its portrait across his expression. Had his attraction unsettled him? Had he not expected to find another man appealing?

If not, then his reaction defined an adaptable personality. He had not put up a shield of defensive bluster or sneered a challenge in Sherlock’s direction as many would have done upon experiencing the first glimmer of an alternative sexuality. Neither had John watched him as if he didn't know what he wanted. His expression had been one of longing: hot and tempting.

One that had almost taken Sherlock’s breath away.

However, that was not nearly as fascinating as the fact that all his observations – a troubled family life, a potentially addictive personality, strength and sensuality – added up to the sum of John Watson. How anyone could stand there, pretending to the world that he was so benign was beyond him. Didn't people see what was right in front of them? A doctor and a soldier, killer and healer: a walking contradiction.

Sherlock was not merely intrigued, he was fascinated. He wanted to know more. No, not just more: everything, from the mundane to the magnificent.

This reaction was an aberration, far out of the ordinary for him and worthy of investigation in its own right. Briefly, Sherlock wondered if it was an infatuation – something to which he had not lowered himself in the past – but no, it couldn't be. He had never been a victim to his hormones, and that was not about to change.

In the end, the root of his unexpected obsession was irrelevant. It was nothing more than a fleeting moment of connection on a train. They had not even conversed, not directly. When it came to it, it was unlikely he would ever set eyes on John Watson again. The convergence of their lives, brief as it was, had ended.

It was probably for the best, or so Sherlock told himself. Some mysteries should be left untouched.

With a final pull on the cigarette that burned the paper down to the filter, he scuffed it out on the bricks beneath his feet, relishing the taste of tar and the buzz of nicotine before he released the smoke's spirit in a steady stream.

'You've been out here for more than an hour.'

He did not give Mycroft the pleasure of seeing him flinch, instead choosing to pierce his brother with a glare. He had put on weight since they had last spoken. Nothing unseemly, but enough for Sherlock to notice: the curse of a sedentary job and a constantly-stocked dessert trolley.

'There's no law against that.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 'That could change,' he murmured, his gaze flickering down to the cigarette before he came to a halt at Sherlock's side. He did not lean against the wall to mirror his position, but instead stood much as their father had done when he was around, tall and commanding, yet giving himself away with every nervous twist of his fingers.

Sherlock noticed the subtle tell before Mycroft slipped his hands into his pockets, ruining the line of his suit. 'Mummy is concerned.'

'No she's not.' Sherlock pulled free another cigarette and lit it, more out of spite than any need. 'She's too busy to notice anything’s amiss. You will be too, soon enough, if you keep following in her footsteps.'

'This country needs people like us, Sherlock. People like you. You've spent three years idling your way through a degree that poses no challenge, talking to people who mean nothing to you and accruing a veritable portfolio –' He reached out, snagging the cigarette from between Sherlock's lips and dropping it on the floor. '– of bad habits. Did you think we didn't know about the cocaine?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Do you think I care one way or the other?' he retorted, experiencing some satisfaction in seeing Mycroft bite back an old, tired argument. It hadn't always been like this: his sibling a de-facto parent, all disapproval and authority. Once they had been closer: brothers in more than name.

'Something is on your mind,' Mycroft murmured, sounding more curious than sympathetic. 'You're not normally this transparent. What is it?'

'Nothing you could understand,' he replied, strangely unwilling to share this with Mycroft. It felt like a betrayal, and not just because his brother would belittle the whispers of sentiment surrounding the topic. Sherlock knew that John Watson was not his – he never would be – so he hoarded the scant memories and deductions as if they were as precious as gold.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he sauntered towards the corner of the building, his mind already skipping ahead to the city in its veil of darkness and the distractions he could find. However, before departing from view, he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.

'I am not the only who is transparent, Mycroft. If you are going to be as successful in your career as you hope, you need to occupy your hands. They give you away.' He watched as they were withdrawn from their pocket sheaths, manicured and capable, their father's ring gleaming in the weak lights of London. 'An umbrella, perhaps? Practical and hardly out of place on an Englishman.'

'Sherlock –'

He dismissed whatever Mycroft had been about to say with a flick of his fingers. The distance yawned between them, metaphorical, as well as literal, but he did not mourn it. Instead, he let the shadows enfold him and allowed his mind to turn once more, in requiem, to the soldier on the train. Perhaps they would never meet again, but Sherlock would remember him: living proof that, for the first time in his life, there was someone who saw him as more than a freak.

 


	3. Sojourn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Really brief mention of past one-time child abuse

Sojourn: A temporary stay.

~~~~~~

It returned to him at strange times: when he was taking inventory or dressing a wound, knocking the sand out of his boots or playing poker with the others. By all rights, the memory should have turned to gauze, thin and filmy with age, but all John had to do was pause and he was there again, pinned by a pair of stunning eyes as a resplendent voice detailed his existence.

He had been back to London on leave after his second tour, and he'd be lying to himself if he hadn't looked. Every time he got on the tube, he'd glance around, as if the man was a spirit summoned by the drum of wheels and the song of the tracks, but there was never any sign of him. All John had was a name: Sherlock, and how he wished those two syllables hadn't stuck quite so thoroughly in his head, as unforgettable as the man himself.

'Hey!' Bill's meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder, jolting him from his reverie as the tent canvas flapped around them. 'Did you hear a bloody word I said –?'

'Shit, sorry. I was miles away.'

Murray rolled his eyes as if he knew where John's thoughts dwelt. 'You not forgotten about him yet? It’s been more than a year. You know, if you got this stuck on some girl, you'd be married by now.'

John shook his head, knowing the world wasn't that simple. He'd been interested in other people; it wasn't like he was pining for a stranger he'd never really met. There was Anna and Natasha, who had both been brilliantly distracting when he was back in the UK, but neither of them lingered as more than a pleasant impression of curves and wet warmth, satisfaction and the uncomplicated pleasure of a good time.

'It’s not – God, nothing. Never mind. Pass me that box of penicillin will you?'

Murray reached out, but before John could grasp the slender cardboard packet, a thud pulsed around them. The noise travelled up through the sand, bombarding his ears and robbing him of breath as light scorched across his eyes. He could hear shouts and cries of alarm: the sound of panic on the base. 

John was already reaching for his kit when something cleaved the air in front of him. There was a bloom of discomfort, and the world disappeared.

He blinked at the darkness surrounding him, cursing at the ache in his head. Slick blood dripped down the side of his face, and he groped at his temple, wincing at the sharp sting. Shit, had he been shot? What the hell was going on?

'Shrapnel.'

A match flared, striking golden highlights across a familiar, angled face. A pair of silver eyes carried the flame’s reflection, and one lid dropped in a wink before a cigarette tip burned carmine. A moment later, he transferred the cluster of sparks to an emergency lantern like the ones used during black-outs – primitive, but useful – and coaxed the wick to life.

'You were hit by shrapnel, not a bullet. You might need stitches, and you're certainly concussed. No permanent damage, though.'

John bit his lip, the gritty road crunching under his boots as he stepped forward. This wasn't the base; there were no tents or command buildings. No perimeter hemmed them in. Now, his night-vision was coming to him, blurring the froth of stars into view. A full moon was beginning to crest the mountains, lending a silver edge to the landscape while the man in front of him bathed in precious light.

Sherlock was sitting on a flat outcrop of stone, his weight braced on the hand splayed behind him. Dark hair gleamed in the aura of the lantern, and those inquisitive eyes never left John's face. 

'I'm unconscious,' John murmured, relieved. The thought of Sherlock, a boy still in many ways, out here in Afghanistan's treachery made him sick. 'This is a dream.'

'Obviously,' Sherlock replied, removing the cigarette and offering it to John, who declined out of habit. 'I suppose I must make allowances for the head injury. Your mental acuity is hardly at its best. Perhaps you should sit down?' 

John did, his fingers still tracing the bitter line of pain across his temple as he sank onto the rock at Sherlock's side. He took a deep breath, smelling blood, sand, and smoke, but there was also something softer: London rain. 

Everything about the man at his side was etched in startling clarity, from the swell of his curls to the unforgettable lines of that face. This was not the tattered veils of his normal dreams: hot gasps and needy moans. This was eerily real, even though he knew that Sherlock couldn't be here, and John himself was back on base, blacked-out amidst the chaos.

‘You’re staring.’ Sherlock’s lazy accusation shook John from his reverie, an apology automatically on his lips before he swallowed it back. This was his dream after all; he could stare if he wanted.

‘So are you.’ He watched Sherlock take a drag before tipping back his head to exhale upwards. At first glance, it could be mistaken for a considerate act – an effort not to pollute John’s air-space – but no. The man he’d seen on the train didn’t seem the type to bother about other people’s comfort. He probably did it because it made him look dramatic: the long, exposed column of his throat and the subtle strength of lithe muscles on display.

‘People find it rude.’ Sherlock spoke in a tone that implied everyone in the world except him was stupid. ‘They find me _rude_. You don’t. Why?’

John shrugged, scratching his nose and cuffing at the trickle of blood that wound down the side of his cheek. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but that thing you did, on the train? That was incredible!’

A flick of Sherlock’s fingers sent grey ash dancing away, and John watched it vanish into the shadows. ‘That’s not what people normally say.’

‘What do people normally say?’

‘“Piss off.”’

The bubble of laughter caught John by surprise, loud in the brittle, desert calm. Sherlock’s expression of shock made him giggle more, and he watched a faint smile twitch the corners of that full mouth, shy and subtle, as if its owner couldn’t recall the mechanics of such a simple gesture.

With an elegant twist of his wrist, Sherlock pitched the skeletal remains of his cigarette out into the night, the embers at its tip a fading star as he turned to face John fully. 

A thrill of shock stuttered along John’s nerves as the full weight of that scrutiny fell upon him, so much more breath-taking now there was no more than a foot of space between them. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch, drag his fingers over that pale skin and pull Sherlock close. That’s what he normally did in the gossamer glide of his fantasies.

This time, though, he held back, pinned like a butterfly by the power of Sherlock’s visual interrogation. Besides, such action felt too bold – this figment of his imagination too concrete to influence with his will. He could sense everything, from the subtle warmth of Sherlock’s nearby body to the bouquet of fresh smoke that clung to his skin. Even the night-clad terrain around him was vivid, from the coarse rocks and sand beneath his boots to the jagged silhouettes of the cedar trees.

Before John could flinch, Sherlock pulled something white from his pocket, folding it fastidiously before pressing it to the gash. His other hand cupped John’s jaw, holding him in place, and John’s pulse thumped hard. This close he could see a few dusty freckles across the bridge of Sherlock’s nose, as well as an incongruous fleck of brown-ish gold in one grey-green iris.

‘What are you doing?’ He licked his lips, his voice strained.

‘And you call yourself a doctor.’ A dark eyebrow lifted, mocking, and John bristled. ‘Stemming the flow of blood. It’s distracting me.’

‘From what?’

Sherlock cocked his head as if he thought the answer was obvious, and when he spoke, his voice held a trace of command. ‘I can see almost everything about you, from what you show everyone else to the things you try to hide.’ One finger shifted, touching the scar against his cheek, and John tensed. He hadn’t told anyone about that – his dad’s drunk right hook, the cut of his ring, the fear – but he could see the knowledge of it in Sherlock’s gaze. 

Cool shame tried to twist in his gut, but he pushed it down. Kids blamed themselves for all sorts of shit; he was too old for that now. None of it was his fault, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with this man – this stranger-but-not – stealing the secret for himself.

‘I can deduce all of that,’ Sherlock continued, and if he saw John’s discomfort, he did not mention it. Instead, he shifted the cloth at John’s temple, peering at the wound before pressing against it once more, ‘but I don’t know why you’re here.’

‘It’s a dream,’ John pointed out, pulling a face when Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘I can’t help where I end up.’

‘You’re an idiot,’ he sighed, ‘but less so than most people. I didn’t mean why are you here in this moment, I meant why did you do this in the first place? Why the army? Why the war? You’re not Queen and Country, no matter what you lead people to believe. At first I thought it was just your pathological need for adrenaline, but that’s not it. Or at least, it’s not the only reason.’ Sherlock frowned, his eyes darting around John’s face as if reading the answer from his skin. ‘What did I miss?’

John’s usual excuses fell silent as he took in the honest perplexity in Sherlock’s expression. It was not the petulant sulk of a child denied information, but something earnest, as if the response was integral to his continuing happiness. He looked like a man starved for understanding, and all he could do in reply was shrug his shoulders, his voice small and helpless in the desert air.

‘It’s my place. It’s where I belong. It’s – it’s where I’m meant to be.’

He expected ridicule, or at least for a sneer to twist Sherlock’s features. However, he remained receptive and curious, blank-faced but for the smallest, doubtful frown.

‘Are you sure about that?’

The battlements of John’s teeth trapped his instinctive confirmation, and he blinked as a rising wind whipped sand against his cheeks. Overhead, the stars appeared to crackle in the firmament, and the moon’s pallor grew more intense, the familiar pocks of its craters overwhelmed as illumination poured from one horizon to another.

Sherlock’s touch vanished, the pressure of his fingertips melting to nothing but wraiths of memory, and John dragged his eyes open to squint at the canvas above his head.

‘Back in the land of the living?’ Bill quipped, looking harassed as he taped a dressing to John’s head. ‘Trust you to be out for the count and miss the good stuff.’ His voice strained around the joke, and John peered at him in confusion. ‘Nothing too bad. A bit of shrapnel got you. I’ve stitched you up, and you might have a mild concussion.’

‘I know,’ John murmured, ignoring his friend’s baffled expression as he struggled to prop himself up on one elbow. Immediately, his head began to pound and nausea rolled in his stomach. It must have painted his face in shades of green, because in the next instant Bill was easing him back onto the thin mattress and putting a bucket beside him.

‘Hey, take it easy. I won’t lie and say we don’t need you, but we can make do for a while. Get a bit of rest, at least ‘til you can lift your head without throwing up.’

Reluctantly, John did as he was asked, settling back on the meagre pillow and listening to the clamour all around him. He could discern the rush of vehicles, shouted orders and the coarse whistle of the wind through the camp. After the peace of his dream, it was a discordant cacophony, and John gritted his teeth as his heart twisted in futile longing, desperate to return to Sherlock’s side.

It hadn’t been real; he knew that. The mind played tricks, and head injuries had the weirdest consequences. If that was all he suffered, Sherlock’s tempting presence and intense curiosity, then he should count himself lucky.

He inhaled, sensing sharp antiseptic and paper-dry sand, engine oil and the odd, baked scent of Afghanistan’s air. It was the perfume of his existence, comforting and familiar, except… Maybe it was ridiculous, wishful thinking, but as he lay there, a different fragrance caught his attention, scintillating and foreign.

Cigarettes and city rain.


End file.
